11:11 (make a wish)
by The 0dd 0ne
Summary: The supernatural. August Burns can add that to her list of things that make her life suck. /or/ The flickering candles & chorus of Crappy Birthday are always a sign for the worst. The clock strikes 11:11 as she pinches the flames out, not caring to blow out a doomed wish. She gives a wry smile & wraps her arms around Stiles' neck, she always hugs him first. AU Love Triangle R
1. 000: scars

000: October 31st, 11:11 AM

_"you wanna know how i got these scars?" - the joker_

_(you probably shouldn't ask, it gave her post traumatic stress disorder after all)_

She was seven - she had just turned seven. She thought it was just Scotty & Stiles messing with her, pulling a dumb prank. They were complete doofuses, it made sense.

August Infinite Burns (born to a broken women who wished nothing more than to have hope, clinging desperately to the slightest gleam of golden light - thus the possibility of something truly being infinite was her mocking, scratched mirror of a savior & her child) was a victim. Of everything. Especially bad birthdays. So bad, that by 6, her dear friends sung a round of Crappy Birthday in place of whatever idiotic well wishes normal kids heard as those yellowed orange flames danced upon the charring white candle tips.

But really, August was a miracle child, born 11 days early, unusually strong, fast upon her feet, light enough to catch air for more than just fleeting moments, & naturally gifted at everything she tried - so much so, that she exceeded all pre-set expectations of such a small child.

She had just prepared to go trick-or-treating with her best friends, who were a year older than her but she skipped a grade, not an hour earlier - Stiles' dad, the sheriff, had even agreed to go with them while Scott's mom, a nurse, worked a double shift.

They'd been playing tag near the woods (they'd promised Stiles' dad not to go in the woods) when August had run run into the woods to escape a wheezing Scott who had been fumbling with his inhaler. She hadn't run _too_ far in, but she couldn't see the clearing they'd been running in.

Sturdy trees like unmoving guards encased her on a leaf ridden pathway. Her fiery red - technically a dark strawberry blonde - hair swung this way & that as she jerked her head in different directions, looking for a familiar sight.

_- 7, 8, 9, 10, 11 - too loud, you're being too loud, Burns. What if you scare something & it attacks? _Foreshadowing much? Well, she always was a sharp girl with a sixth sense for genres.

Her heart beat away at her rib cage, as if trying to tear through it.

In her head, she kept track of each beat, counting them & listening for variations. It was important she keep her heart rate down, her family was prone to cardiac arrest & other heart malfunctions (they were mechanical, they could not prosper & should not feel, disease did not plague them but malfunctions coursed through their wires) - well, her mother's side of it. But her mother was balanced on the edge far, far away, drowning out everything with anything she could.

You see, August Infinite Burns was born dead.

The second the vet in whose office she was born - her parents had been out on a drive around Beacon Hills, California their chosen vacation spot, when she was born 11 days early - found no pulse for the small infant, her father walked out of the room, out of the hospital, out of his marriage. Not even a glance was spared at any point, but according to research, he's dead anyways.

He would never know the consequences of his actions - August's mother was driven to bitter tastes & glistening silver & empty eyes & numbness. October 31st, 1999 she was deemed unfit as a mother & August was shipped back to her birth place where a single mother took her in & showed her care she knew nothing of. That single mother was Scott's mom.

As her accusing muddle of shiny green & piercing blue eyes (a chaotic, battling mixture of her mother & father) observed the darkness, searching for familiarity, something rustled.

Narrowing her big eyes, she called out, "enough with the cliche horror movie stuff, you two can come out now."

. . .

. . .

No response.

. . .

More rustles.

. . .

_They should've surrendered by now - or been too noisy or started laughing. Maybe, maybe they've gotten smarter . . . so, if I press on, they should run out & tackle me . . ._

"Stiles, Scotty," she warily took out the Swiss army knife Sheriff Stilinski gave to her, searching for movement in the entangled trees & shrubs. Her grip tightened, she was sure she'd just seen trembling leaves!

Too much pressure, but not nearly enough to be the ever clumsy Stiles leaning into a shrub or a laughter stifling Scott pressing his torso to branches so he could peer through the haze of greens & oranges all sticking out unevenly.

It was then that a large, ferocious wolf-like creature emerged from the shadows, growling viciously.

"Stay back," she warned, ready to strike. _Red eyes . . . blood red eyes . . . that can't be good. _Smart girl. Smart enough to get her killed.

The creature took no heed from her words, lunging at her with blade like fangs bared & filthy claws drawn. A high, blood-curdling scream built up in her throat, tears burning her eyes, & blood leaving her waist.

For a moment, the creature was human - an aging man watching her expectantly as she fell to the bed of grass beneath her, clutching the knife in one trembling hand & forcing pressure against the fresh bite with the other.

With blurred vision, she stared at the calm man, memorizing him as whimpers became mangled in her throat & crimson stained her pallid skin - she could not succumb to the darkness invading her eyesight.

. . . Calm, she felt so, _so_ calm, so perfectly fine. Hell, she was counting the darkened trails of clouds! _1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 . . . 6 clouds. What? Crimson rain, like blood . . . blood rain drops . . . oh, God._

The man nodded, turning her over so the blurred sky went in & out in place of thickets of trees with a silver rod, "Well, happy seventh birthday, Ms. Burns."

Then, shadows engulfed her world, darkness casting over the sea of red.

When she came to, a white ceiling greeted her, accompanied by 2 of her favorite faces to see - not that she'd ever tell them that _without_ punching them afterwards.

Stiles' big brown eyes lit up as he grinned - August was awake! A large grin tugged at Scott's lips as he let out a relieved laugh.

"August! Thank god, we thought you weren't gonna wake up - some animal, a mountain lion, Dad said, bit you!" Stiles blabbered, his small arms tucking the young girl into his chest.

"Yeah," Scott nodded in agreement, unsure of what exactly he should say - his little sister could've bled to death because they were stupid enough to play near the woods. Hadn't those horror movies they weren't supposed to watch taught them anything!?

"Mm, Stiles, I . . ." A cough wretched in her throat, both boys faintly outlined & doubled as her blurry vision swept over the dull tile ceiling. The flecks of black dirt & the peeling paint went out for a moment as she tried to push back the dizzy feeling of nausea without worsening the sharp ache in her head. As she felt, from her fingertips alone, her hand brush over her wrapped wound, she recognized the anesthesia pumping through the mangled area.

"What, August, what?" Stiles nervously asked, a peaking eagerness breaking into his voice.

"I, ugh, need . . . need a, a," August blinked groggily, groaning at the pain in her side.

"What? What do you need?" Stiles pressed on, gripping her dainty, pallid hand.

"A shar - a sharp . . . I need a - sharp, ugh, object." She managed, her pink tongue tracing her dry & chapped lips.

Scott blinked. Even in a hospital bed with her butt hanging out of a dotted gown, even with a bloody bite mark on her side, even after just waking up 11 days after being attacked . . . even then she was a smart ass.

"What?" Stiles frowned, not understanding what she meant as his ADHD caught sight of pretty red hair floating behind a small girl outside the door . . . Small girl, red hair - August! Why on _Earth_ did August need a sharp object?

"A sharp object," she repeated, shifting in the bed, "to stab you & Scotty with . . . f - for deciding to, to play tag near the, the creepy woods . . . what about the horror, ung, movies, doofus?"

"That's what you need? A sharp object. To stab me with. Oh, yeah, sure, why don't I go get you that right now?" He sarcastically suggested, feigning a smile. "No, I'm not going to get you a sharp object to stab me with!" He exclaimed, throwing his arms out in frustration, why, oh God, _why_ was August so _difficult!?_

That was a question he wouldn't answer that November.

[Time for genuine feedback - what do you like, what theories do you have, what don't you like? Just tell me something that works or doesn't work or that you think or want to happen. How do you think it all comes together? What ships would you like to see? You're opinions can change & so can the story.

So, share it, review it, love it.

But don't follow if you won't review, that's just asshole-ish.]


	2. 001: secrets

001: November 11th, 2004, 9:38 PM

_"three may keep a secret if two of them are dead." - benjamin franklin_

_(but how in hell is she expected to off her best friends?)_

Keeping a secret is easy. Well, when part of you is a pathological liar. It's even easier when you have slight sociopathic tendencies. Fortunately for one August Burns, both things apply, she's just really good at hiding them.

That's why, for exactly 11 days, 10 hours, & 38 minutes (she's been counting), she hasn't slipped about the changes. Not normal changes, like cramps & bloating & bleeding & all that agonizing crap, no, she's only 9 & she has a foolproof system for hiding brussel sprouts & broccoli & carrots & all those disgusting healthy things that make her want to puke - changes like . . . Well, the scar; all jagged teeth & peeling skin; has taken shape, no longer just a circular blob-like jaw, but . . . An infinity sign. The stretched sideways eight glares right back at her pale reflection when she undresses in the bathroom for a scalding or numbing shower.

It always does.

But it's more than that, she's faster & stronger (she can now sprint & fight thrice as fast) & her reflexes have seriously improved & her senses are all incredible & sometimes, when she's running icy water to glide over her pale skin, she has these claws like the wolf man (as she, Scott, & Stiles, who she told a big wolf, built like a man, attacked her that night but they suspect it was just an overgrown zoo animal, have nicknamed him). In the mirror, her eyes can go from the clash of green & blue to a sardonic, vindictive yellow, but it's a flickering change. There for a fleeting second, then gone with the wind. It's so spontaneous she's not sure if it's really there. Her gut instinct screams yes while her common sense whispers no, because she can't believe her eyes would ever gleam amber. There is no way that is possible, human eyes can't flash amber like a wolves. Wolves. Wolf. August can't stand to think like that right now.

She's carefully collected books & other research on the supernatural changes. Her data has given her an unbelievable, impossible result:

She's a werewolf.

But no, that doesn't make sense either; she should've changed 2 years ago if that's true, that's how all the myths & legends say the bite works. And it should've healed. Her injuries should heal quickly, as if blood never leaked from her skin or clotted in an area or as if her bones never cracked in any way (last year, October 31st, 11:11 AM, she broke her wrist climbing a tree, that night she had a nightmare about the attack, just like every full moon & November 11th). She should change into a wolf every full moon, have urges to kill or just be an asshole in general.

She releases the end of the Batman shirt she won from Stiles in their last video game match (Halo, she kicked his ass on so many levels), allowing it to fall over the scar. The threads, tightly woven together, fall elegantly (falling faster than the speed of light into an abyss) after slipping from her pallid hands' grip.

Red eyes. _(The truth, Darling.)_ _No . . ._ Yellowed sharp fangs. _(Tell them, I dare you.)_ _No._ Screams of anguish. _(Why not, scared?)_ _NO._ Blurred vision. _(Please?)_ _No, damn it._ Searing pain, like flames licking her sides as a dull blade shifts slowly inside a wound. _(Aw, they'll only hate you a little, Sweetheart.)_ _No, no, no._ Full moon. _(I promise they will, Angel.)_ _No! _Broken. Broken. Broken. _(You're broken, Little Girl.)_

She hates how bluntly, sadistically, cruelly honest her thoughts are.

_(If you hate it so much, tell them the truth, Darling.)_

"No." She cries out, shaking in terror, why does it still taunt her? Is this her curse for an infinite time? Will the burned out birthday candle's ashes fall into her eyes forever? And ever. And ever.

_I love that movie. Wait - what's wrong with me?_ The string of thoughts spin like silver threads of a web as she contemplates.

"August, Stiles here with the pizza!" Scott calls from the hall, knowing better than to barge into her room unwelcomed; small as she may be, the fierce redhead had taken out boys much larger - in both mass & height - than Scott on several occasions in which a brutal beating from her had been more than earned.

"I'll be out in a few minutes, go serve pizza!" She shouts back, dragging her sharp nailed fingers through her dark strawberry blond hair, untangling a few knots as her heart rate picked up ever so slightly. You see, for some time now, August has found herself liking Stiles in_ that way._ Ever since they'd gone to egg the house of their horrible teacher, Mr. Deadman (he even _sounded_ like a bad person), she'd found herself staring at him when no one was looking & admiring how smart & kind & funny he was.

They'd been running (the reason the ever asthmatic Scott couldn't tag along to terrorize the vindictive man) to his house, eager to ruin _his_ weekend for a change, joking around, her hair sprawled out in the wind like dancing fire. Ducking behind a corner, they pressed themselves together (completely unfazed by the contact, she had no regard for personal space) to hide in the shadows.

It was then that, his arms tightly gripping her, he murmured, "we're like Batman & Robin."

She froze for a second, his warm breath sending pleasant shivers down her spine, "no. That's more you & Scott."

He shrugged, nodding slightly.

"You're Robin." She added.

"Hey," Stiles frowned, why was he Robin?

"Keep your voice down!" She snapped in a hushed whisper.

"Fine, but, who are we if me & Scott are Batman & Robin?" Stiles whispered, peering around to see if Mr. Deadman had turned off the lights & headed out in his crappy little Prius. No such luck.

"We're Sherlock Holmes & John Watson," she answered, ready to begin egging.

He shrugged, nodding his head. Stiles got where August was coming from with that analogy.

"You're John Watson." She added upon seeing his unfazed nod

"Why?" He whined.

"I'm smarter than you," she pointed out.

"Okay, fine, Little Miss Grade-Skipper - " 'Little Miss Grade-Skipper' snickered, clutching her hand to her mouth in an attempt to stifle the noise " - shut up, that was off the top of my head . . . At the very least, I'll be at your side to help you," he said, the night air sweeping through his brown hair. Her face flushed at the words, her heart racing.

_Stiles . . . At my side . . . So sweet . . . Funny . . . Cute . . . Lydia is an idiot._

That inept, hyper-active, quirky dork was giving her butterflies. Serious, gut wrenching butterflies flying like mad men in their desperate & confused attempt at escape from her stomach. August had never even felt a single butterfly flapping about in her stomach before. And there Stiles was, oh so casually sending them in a flock as if mocking her.

What had the world come to?

"Adorkable." She deadpanned with a sarcastic roll of her eyes, "time to egg a bad, bad man's house, Watson."

"No shit, Sherlock." He scoffed, following her.

She knew he was too dedicated to his crush on Lydia to like her back, that was okay, expected actually. She would probably be over him by seventh grade, it was just a silly crush. In the meantime, she would focus on writing - everyone called her brilliant - & school - people thought she was quite possibly a genius. So she had a small crush on one of her best, dorkiest friends? Big deal. He was sweet & loyal & funny & really warm, but he was also Stiles, who saw her as a little sister-ish person. Definitely a crushable crush, she could be done with it by the end of fifth grade if she kept going over all his weird quirks. No problemo.

"You coming, Hermione?" Stiles calls out, his voice distressed & high (puberty will not be kicking in until late seventh grade, maybe early eighth, at least if she was right, which she usually is). She can't help but crack a playful grin at his choice of nicknames.

"She's getting dressed, Stiles, give her a minute," Scott shushes Stiles as he plops large, greasy extra cheese (meat lover's delight) pieces of Pizza Hut pizza on Dixie paper plates.

"Hey, dorks."

She can't bare the thought of them hating her so she'll just keep her "darling" mouth shut about the supernatural.

For now, it can just be fiction that makes them wet themselves.

{Time for genuine feedback - what do you like, what theories do you have, what don't you like? Just tell me something that works or doesn't work or that you think or want to happen. How do you think it all comes together? What ships would you like to see? You're opinions can change & so can the story.

So, share it, review it, love it.

But don't follow if you won't review, that's just asshole-ish. [insert obnoxious smiley face here] - She-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named a.k.a The 0dd 0ne}


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